Page 18 of A Life Betrayed

“What they have been able to do, however, is trace it back to you,” she said, trying to keep the smugness from her voice.

Apparently, the Reapers’ affiliation with the Montreal mafia had resulted in a bad case of overconfidence. The Canada Border Services Agency had initiated a series of surveilled stakeouts and come away with video evidence of weapons being delivered to various Reaper-owned establishments across Ontario. In one video, Truman himself could be seen inspecting the contents of a crate as a delivery was unloaded into the storeroom at the back of the Iguana, his infamous Hamilton brothel.

“I assume you’re aware of the situation, or you wouldn’t have met with me today,” Frances said. “A conviction of this nature carries a sentence of eleven to fourteen years. I can imagine the prospect of jail time might be somewhat unsettling.”

“Can you?” Truman sneered. He brought the cup of beer to his mouth and chugged it back. “So, what—I hand over a couple of the boys, point you in the direction of the guns, and you get your little hoorah? What’s the going rate—three to one? I got a few guys who could use a stint in the cooler.”

“No,” Frances said with a shake of her head. Below, in the rink, there was a flurry of movement as the Bulldogs burst out onto the ice, and a roar went up from the stands. She turned to fix Truman with a hard stare. “I want something on Mathias Beauvais.”

Truman visibly stiffened. Then he began to chuckle, covering his misstep. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Come on, Truman. We’ve known about your little family-facilitated narcotics shipments for a while now. We know the two of you are working together. What we don’t have is anyevidence linking him to the operation. We’d like you to help us with that.”

Truman tossed his now-empty cup to the floor by his feet. “Fuck off,” he growled. “There ain’t no way I’m helping you. Do you know the man? Fourteen years in the hole is nothing compared to what he’ll do if someone rolls over on him.”

“Don’t worry about Mathias,” Frances said, feigning confidence. “When we’re done, he’ll be put away for a long time.”

Truman shifted so he was facing her, his bulky frame spilling over the edge of the seat. She hadn’t realized quite how hefty he was until she’d sat down, and even with the surrounding crowd, she felt the menace of his physicality.

“Should’ve known some lady cop would be thick as a brick. You think prison will stop Beauvais? Do you know how many people he has in his pocket? He’d be running the joint before you know it—turn it into his own little fiefdom.” Truman raised his arm and pointed a thick sausage finger in her face. “I ain’t giving you that, sweetheart. Ask for something else, or we’re done here.”

Frances shrugged and got to her feet. “Then we’re done. If it’s not Mathias, you’ve got nothing I want.” She moved to the stairs and stopped to address Truman over her shoulder. “I look forward to the trial. I hope you’ve got a good lawyer.”

Armando Bernardi owned Le Châtaignier,an exclusive French restaurant in the cobblestoned Vieux-Montréal neighborhood that was open to the public only three nights a week. It catered handpicked events for the family’s elite and hosted the occasional private function upon request. Apparently, even the boss was an admirer. He and his wife ate there every other Saturday.

It was also where the Quintino liked to hold their meetings. The aging councilmen were most comfortable when plied with a steady stream of rich food and expensive alcohol. They’d paid their dues and were no longer interested in margins and maximizing efficiency, only with how to maintain their station and ensure that the boss kept the ship afloat. It had proven a drastic change of pace for Mathias, who was wired to hunt out problems and aggressively resolve them.

They were seated in the private dining room toward the back of the restaurant and had just finished the fourth course of a seemingly endless lunch. Enzo interrupted a discussion on the increased customs presence at the Chartierville border crossing and turned to Mathias. “Did you look into that new inspector?”

“I did.” Mathias placed his knife and fork across his half-eaten plate of seared duck. “I also had the pleasure of meeting her. I would be careful who you speak to at Le Rouge going forward.” There was a low murmur of disquiet from the three men at the table.

“This the broad with the RCMP? I thought she was supposed to be some brainless paper shuffler,” Gabriele grumbled.

“I wouldn’t underestimate her,” Mathias cautioned. “When was the last time the Feds tried to infiltrate one of our establishments?”

“The Quebec office would never be so brazen,” Armando said with a snort.

“That’s why she’s here. She’s got no qualms trying things the local office wouldn’t dare,” Mathias said.

“I don’t like it,” Enzo said, tapping his knuckles against the starched white tablecloth. “Do what you need to stay ahead of this.”

The waitstaff came through from the kitchen and began clearing their plates. Mathias waited until they’d left beforecontinuing. “What I can’t figure out is who’s behind the original tip-off.”

“Who wouldn’t benefit from us going through the wringer? I can’t think of a single group that won’t stand to gain,” Armando said.

“Might not be a group behind it,” Gabriele posited. “Could be a personal grievance, a targeted attack.”

“Regardless, the Feds can’t afford to keep this dragging on.” Enzo raised his glass of wine to drain it. “My guess is they’ll want something to show for their time, and we’re an easy target.”

Mathias didn’t give voice to his suspicions about Truman, since they were still just that: suspicions. There was no need to get the council up in arms until he heard back from Gurin.

The servers chose that moment to return with ramekins of crème brûlée and cups of black coffee. The conversation at the table shifted as the men busied themselves with the final course. “So, Beauvais,” Armando said, giving him a sly smile. “Has the boss shown you the office?”

Mathias pushed his dessert aside and considered the question carefully. “He has. It’s ambitious.”

“It’s crazy, is what it is,” Enzo retorted. “I was hoping you’d convince him of that.”

“I can’t say I’m entirely on board,” Mathias said judiciously. “He seems dead set on corporatizing Collections.”

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